(Fic) Writer Picks the Music
by tyrsibs
Summary: A Supernatural playlist of short songfics. The songs have been used on the show, featured in fanvids, or sung at conventions. I hope you enjoy! NEW! Chapter 4: (Don't Fear) The Reaper. The Winchesters have a reputation, sure. But it wasn't always clear how important-some say destructive-they would turn out to be. (Outsider POV, Spoilers for 1/16, Shadow.)
1. CrossRoad Blues

John Winchester stood in the center of the crossroads with a box in his hand. It was a full moon, and the world was painted in blue-green light, from the flat blades of grass on all sides of the road to the gravel beneath his feet that had become a cold alien landscape of sharp edges and shadows. He had not begun to dig a hole for his box. He just wanted to breathe the clean night air for a moment before he dug himself down and called the demon.

He had to bring her back, he knew. The boys needed their mother, and he—he needed his Mary. His finger stroked the top of his little cherrywood box as her face appeared in his mind, smiling. And distant.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he whispered. "I can't do this anymore." She would know, she would understand. When she was back, sitting next to him in the Impala where she belonged with the kids in the backseat, they would drive until they found one of Bobby's hideout cabins. They'd make a home for the boys. He would keep them all safe, and she would raise them to be stronger and better men than their father. They would make the most of their ten years, and then—

A young child's waking cry startled John, and he nearly dropped the box in the road. His head jerked up towards the car parked well away from the crossroads, so far away that he was surprised that he'd heard Sammy at all. "Kid's got some lungs, Mary," he said hoarsely. In the moonlight he caught a flash of bright blue fabric topped by a sandy blonde mop of hair raise in the front seat and then slip over the bench into the back where Sam's car seat was strapped down. Dean was on the job, as usual, and Sammy's cries soon softened and stopped. John huffed out a mirthless laugh.

He should have left them with Missouri, but he knew he wouldn't have borne up under the look she would have given him. He could have left them at Bobby's place, but then how would he have explained things when he and Mary showed up on the old hunter's porch to reclaim their sons? And Pastor Jim was out of the question, for what he was about to do. Better if they simply slipped away from the life and let his few friends wonder for a couple of years.

Ten years to be exact.

As he gazed at the car windows he saw the sandy crown of hair glimmering just a little over the top of the bench seat. Dean was looking out of the windshield. Looking for him.

Could he see his father, standing in the middle of the road like a directionless fool? John's hands began to tremble, still gripping the summoning box.

One second he stood staring at the sliver of pale hair through the windshield. Then he fell to his knees. The box tumbled out of his hands and its lid slipped open. He saw his own photo gazing impassively up at him beside the curved teeth protruding from the skull of a black cat.

Ten years. If he was lucky. If no one found them first. If Mary didn't get fed up with him and take the kids and leave—

And leave herself in danger. Without him.

Even if he got a full ten years of living with their little family, he'd be leaving them, the boys would only be ten and fourteen, alone. Defenseless.

And Mary—

Mary. Who'd already lost everyone in her life, and who'd lost her chance to build a new one with John and the boys.

Mary would never forgive him.

John stared down at the little picture he'd placed in the summoning box. It was from a photo of himself with her, just after their wedding day. He'd torn it in half and tucked her into his jacket pocket. He looked until, in a sudden burst, his hand reached out and slapped the box away.

It tumbled into the dust at the edge of the crossroads, lid fully gone now. The cat skull lay by itself a yard from his knee. The other contents spilled dark against the gravel in the blue-green light.

The picture settled by the box, one corner raised, until a breeze pushed at it and it skittered across the dark dust of spell ingredients, and came to rest in the tall grass at the edge of the road.

He let it go.

When he walked back to the car the box was tucked under his elbow, the skull rattling inside it. He couldn't see his son's head over the seat anymore, and hoped that Dean had nodded off again. As he walked he opened his leather journal and found the page that had brought him here. Across the top he'd written in capital letters

 **Robert Johnson?**

After he found the hoodoo guy in Georgia, he'd added his list of ingredients and notes, scrawling them across the page, the ballpoint pen digging deep into the paper. Before he got to the car he'd ripped the page out, along with the next one underneath it, and tucked the pages into his coat pocket next to the picture of his Mary.

He opened the rear passenger door of the Impala, willing it to be silent, but of course it creaked and squealed at him. It didn't matter to the two little occupants of the back seat, one asleep and one wide awake.

Little Sammy was breathing softly around the edges of his pacifier, which he chewed absently now and then, without stirring. Dean stared up at his father and did not speak.

"You did good, son," John croaked at him. He had the impulse to reach out and ruffle the boy's hair, but stopped himself. Instead he reached over Dean's head for the plaid blanket they kept folded in the back window. He spread it out over his two boys, tucking it under Dean's denim-clad knee. Sammy grasped a corner of the soft fabric in his fist and settled further into his car seat.

"Are you warm enough?" John whispered to Dean. The boy nodded.

John retrieved the box and skull from the roof where he'd left it, closed the noisy door as quietly as he could, and crossed around the back of the car. He climbed into the driver's seat with a sigh, tossing the box on the passenger seat, and shoved his key into the ignition.

Before he started her up, he caught his son's gaze in the rearview mirror. The moon was dipping lower now, and in the new gloom of the back seat, all he could see of Dean was a halo of hair and his two gleaming and unblinking eyes. So like his mother's. He could not meet those eyes.

"Get some rest, Dean," he said, and turned the key.

 **A/N:** This is part one of a planned series. My goal is to use my own playlist of songs used by or inspired by Supernatural as a basis for a collection of short fics. I'm starting at the top of the list and going in order. That said, if you have any suggestions for song/character pairings or prompts based on the SPN soundtrack, please don't hesitate to let me know in the comments! I'm all ears—and of course, that goes for reviews, too, which are pure gold to fic writers. If you can spare a moment, please drop a comment in my open guitar case (I mean, comment box)? Thanks for reading!


	2. The Family BusinessElegy for John

If you'd asked Bobby, just before he opened his front door on that spring morning, who he expected to see on his old porch, he probably would have said Rufus Turner, come to complain at him about old times for a while. Or Deputy Mills with a complaint writ in hand. Hell, maybe even one of those young cusses that Ellen kept sending to him for intel, even after he'd practically begged her to stop. It would not have crossed his mind that it might be John Winchester's boys.

And yet, there they stood, and Bobby wanted to take a swipe at his eyes to be sure he wasn't sleepwalking. Sam hovered a step behind his older brother, hunching in on himself just like he had when he'd first spurted up past Dean's height. An uncertain smile flickered across his face. Dean's smile, though, was bright as he said, "Hey, Bobby. You are a sight for sore eyes."

Which wasn't true, of course. Bobby narrowed his eyes, wondering why Dean Winchester was trying to snow him. "Hell, you don't hafta be sweet to me," he said. "It's—good to see you boys." He stepped over his threshold and drew Dean in for an awkward hug, slapping his back gently before releasing him and turning to give Sam the same. Around the corner of his house he heard Rummy's chain leash rattle as the dog no doubt settled back down at the sound of Bobby's voice. He cleared his throat. "So—do I gotta ask—"

"It's Dad—he's—" Sam blurted, then suddenly stopped himself. Bobby sighed. Shoulda known they weren't just passing by. He cursed John's name, not for the first time in his life, for bringing more trouble on his kids.

But he let them in, and they let him run his tests without a word, as the three of them studied each other like a clump of kids in a schoolyard on the first day of school. The boys looked good, anyway, even as tense as they both were, at least good enough for the day they were apparently having. Sam had grown his hair out into a shaggy mop and was thin and rangy, like he'd just put on a couple more inches, though that was impossible. His brother seemed to be bucking for a part as the new James Dean, his shoulders slouching under his popped collar and hands in the pockets of his coat. They were studying him, too, and he grasped the bill of his trucker's cap, self-consciously re-settling it on his head as he walked into the study for his flask of holy water.

Dean started talking first—the boy never could stand idle for long. He was filling Bobby in on what had happened in Salvation and the phone call they'd gotten from a demon wearing a pretty girl. Sam let Dean talk, and drifted over to a side table, where he became occupied with one of Bobby's books that was laying open on top of his latest pile.

Bobby listened to Dean.

Bobby remembered.

" _John, I'm not sayin' it again. He ain't leaving my house this afternoon, and that's all there is to it." The kitchen screen door banged shut between them as if to bring his point home._

" _Bobby, he's my son. Mine." John glared at the older hunter from the top step of the rickety kitchen porch. "Don't think you've got the final say here."_

" _I don't give a rat's ass what you think right now." The shotgun he kept by the door was in Bobby's hands before he even had time to think about it, and he used it to push the door back open. John's eyes widened in surprise when he saw the gun, and he backed up. Bobby could've grinned as Winchester almost stumbled trying to find the lower step. He could've, but he held his face in a grimace instead, pumping the gun and bringing the stock up to his waist, though he kept it trained low and pointed at the porch planks. "What are you even doin' here right now, John? You care so much? Where were you a week ago?"_

 _Bobby's grimace tightened as he thought about the phone call he'd gotten from the hospital in Cheyenne, asking him—him, not John—for medical info on an unconscious young man who'd been found bleeding out in some rancher's outer pasture. A boy with a next of kin phone number on a card in his wallet, whose dad hadn't bothered to pick up his phone. So said the tired-sounding charge nurse who had taken in upon herself to go through his phone contacts while her patient was in surgery to set a compound fracture of the radius in his forearm._

" _Look, I know you're mad—"_

" _Don't think you really do, John." Bobby took a step across the porch, then another, pleased at how John backed away towards his truck. "He's been out of the hospital for a day. He's on my couch right now with a busted arm and twenty stitches in his leg. Because of a hunt you sent him on. Because you were too busy to back him up or to answer the damn phone. Far as I'm concerned he's welcome to stay here, on my couch or anywhere else, as long as he needs to. But you ain't."_

 _John was backed up against his monster of a truck now and had his palms up in a placating gesture, but Bobby could tell he was livid. Well, that made two of them. He opened his mouth to say some fool thing along the lines of "get the hell off my land," when the anger in John's eye turned to a glint of satisfaction. Behind him he heard the screen door open with a screech and then bang shut._

 _He turned around, his righteous stance deflating. Dean stood behind him, his duffle strap slung over his right shoulder. The kid ducked his head at his would-be defender in what he probably thought was a manly nod, and managed a small grin. He was still a mess, bruises on his face and his casted arm in a sling pressed up against his ribs, with most of his weight on his good leg. He took a step forward and Bobby could see that he was trying not to limp on his bad leg. The one with the slash that hadn't killed him only because he'd been able to cinch his shirt down over it with his belt before he'd passed out ten yards from the rancher's fence line. Bobby didn't even know what he'd been hunting, just that Dean had assured him that he'd "ganked that son of a bitch" before he collapsed on the couch._

 _Dean didn't look at his dad as he walked deliberately forward. He paused at Bobby's side and brought his good hand up to the old hunter's shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby," he said. "For everything."_

" _You good, son?" John called from the dusty driveway. Bobby could've lifted his shotgun just in answer to the tone in that man's voice, except Dean—_

 _Dean dropped his eyes, said, "Yes, sir," and didn't look back at Bobby as he walked slowly down the steps to his father._

 _John looked into his son's face for several seconds before nodding and turning to open the truck door. He took the duffle and stood at Dean's elbow as the kid hoisted himself up into the passenger seat with the help of the panic handle above the door frame._

Neither of the Winchesters waved goodbye.

"Here you go," Bobby said, picking the flasks up from his desk where they'd been all along.

Not too long after that, the demon riding the pretty girl barged in, talking big, spreading around some bravado about not being impressed with the Winchesters, but she wasn't smart enough to know that Sam was playing her right into Bobby's devil's trap. Her exorcism was something he wasn't going to forget anytime soon. If he was being honest—though no one would be asking him about this—Dean scared Bobby, there, pushing ahead even knowing that he'd be killing the girl underneath.

A bit.

And then afterwards, after she'd thanked them in spite of the fact that they'd all but killed her themselves-

He'd sent them off to help their father, a storm of regret rising in his chest that he was just letting them drive away again. But he knew that John needed them more than Bobby did. The bastard.

XXX

When Sam called him a few days later, he didn't say too much, just that they'd found John, but all three of them had wound up in the hospital thanks to a demon-possessed trucker. Sam said he needed help with the car and that, "Dean's not awake yet, but he will be, soon, and I just—I want to take care of the car." Bobby was on the road barely an hour after hanging up the phone.

Bobby realized just how much Sam had left out when he saw the shape of the car at the wrecking yard. But the boy now standing next to him needed that car to be seen to, for his brother, and facing his tremulous hope was more than the older man could stand up against. They loaded the car onto the trailer together. And when Bobby'd asked him if he still wanted to get the spell ingredients on John's list, even though they were proof that his father had lied to him, Sam said yes. And he'd helped with that, too. Then he drove the kid back to the hospital where Dean lay in silence, any fight he had going on submerged beneath tubes and monitors.

He didn't move to get out of the truck, even though Sam had paused with his hand on the door handle, when they pulled up outside the hospital. The boy was clutching his paper bag of ingredients and looking at him expectantly.

Bobby looked away, cleared his throat. "Sam—me and your dad—I know I said to bring him by, but right now—with Dean in such a bad way—"

Sam huffed and looked at the bag in his lap.

"Let's just say, I don't want to pick up where we left off." Bobby glanced in his rear view mirror at the car they'd covered and strapped to his trailer. "So—I'll get the Impala to my yard for ya. She'll be waiting. But you call me if anything changes. Or when John stops being a damn idjit."

Sam nodded. "Sure—thanks." He lifted the handle and slid out of the cab without looking back. Bobby watched him, hating the way his thin shoulders slumped, until he walked through the automatic door and into the green hospital light.

He sighed.

XXX

Bobby drove through the night, fueled by coffee and an unreasonable amount of anger, coupled with an itchy guilt. The miles stretched out between him and that hospital where Dean was probably dying while John fixed to do something stupid. Sam had wanted him to stay, though he hadn't asked. John had practically announced his plan to have a chat with a demon, handing that shopping list to his youngest and knowing that he would give it to Bobby to fill. And Dean—

Yet here he was, driving away from all of them with their once-beautiful car on its way to what would surely be its last stop amongst his piles of unsalvageable wrecks. Bobby's hands tightened on the wheel. He should let it go. He wasn't a part of this. John—and Dean—they'd set him outside the family, a fond memory rather than an active member, when Dean climbed into that truck four years ago.

When the day dawned in his rear window he was twenty miles away from his own home, which stood empty without even a dog to greet him.

"Balls—" Bobby wiped his hand across his eyes and he stomped down on the gas, tearing up the last few miles as fast as he dared.

His phone sat silent in his pocket as he whipped into the driveway to his house. It weighed on him as he pulled up in front of his repair shed, and he found himself touching it like a talisman throughout the process of releasing the Impala from the trailer into a sheltered bay, before replacing the tarp that hid her, damaged and forlorn, away again. When a tear stung his eye as he covered her up, he called himself a damn fool.

He pulled the phone out as he climbed the steps to his back porch and let himself into his messy little kitchen. He stared at it, tired and bleary, as if it could tell him what was going on five hundred miles behind him all by itself, if he just held it long enough.

He stood in the center of the room, the silence that he usually welcomed in his house growing heavier and heavier, until he had to snort at his own behavior. "Balls," he said again, and chucked the phone onto a pile of bills on the kitchen table.

 _John and Bobby sit at the old formica kitchen table, both staring at the closed pocket door that blocks off the living room. Dean is on the other side of that door, sleeping fitfully on Bobby's couch._

" _He's been out since we got home," Bobby says, "about three hours now." He breaks off to take a long pull on the beer bottle in front of him._

 _John sets down his own bottle. "You know, I tried," he says softly._

 _Bobby startles at the words. He knows the memory he's having now, and John sure as hell hadn't tried explaining himself the first time around. In fact, right here at the kitchen table is where everything started to go downhill, with John clearing his throat and starting in on how he and Dean weren't even going to spend the night. That they had to be off somewhere in upstate Michigan before the weekend._

 _But this John is gazing down at his hands, his fingers wrapped loosely around the base of his bottle. "I never wanted them to grow up the way they did. I never told you, but one time, when Dean was about eight, he asked if him and Sam could stay here all the time. With you. And I said no." He takes a swig. Bobby holds his breath. "It wasn't safe."_

 _In spite of his better judgement, Bobby finds himself saying, "You didn't think I could take care of 'em-"_

" _No. Not that. It wasn't safe. For them, or for you. Something would have found them if they were stuck in one spot. Or they'd get careless, let slip at school what their dad and uncle did for a living, and bring on a whole other set of problems. You know how kids are. I had to keep them moving, keep them sharp. After the thing in Flagstaff—" he smiles to himself wistfully, and brings his gaze up to meet Bobby's stare. "We butted heads a lot, you and me, but the boys, they mean it when they call you Uncle Bobby."_

" _I'm dreamin' here, right?"_

 _The John in front of him fades away and then another version replaces it, standing before him with haggard lines around his eyes and defeated shoulders. This John does not look at his old friend, but keeps his eyes on the closed door where—in the real-world memory that lays over the scene like a smoky haze—Dean must have been waking up to the sound of his adopted uncle kicking his dad out of the house. This other John hangs his head and speaks urgently but without turning around._

" _I need you to take care of my boys. Can you do that? Take care—_

 _Take care—_

 _Care—"_

One of Bobby's phones was ringing and he jolted upright on the couch where he'd drifted off to sleep. He staggered up, cursing as he bashed his shin against the coffee table, and made his way to the kitchen. His cell phone was beeping at him, Sam's number scrolling across the flip-top display. He grabbed it before it fell silent and pulled it open. "I'm here, Sam."

"Bobby? It's- 

"Dean?" He sagged against the metal edge of the table. "By god, it's good to hear your voice. What happened?"

"You didn't get Sam's messages, huh?"

"Fell asleep." There was an unfamiliar drag in Dean's voice, a drone that Bobby tried to tell himself was just a side effect of waking up from a near-fatal coma. But he knew better, and was not surprised when the kid's next words were, "I know that you just got home, and I'm sorry to even ask—but do you think you could come back here? It's Dad, he—" Bobby's heart sank into his stomach.

"He didn't make it. Sam found him—" Dean broke off, choking on the words he was forcing out.

"I'll be there, soon as I can," Bobby promised. "Are you still at the hospital?" Dean cleared his throat, said yes. "Alright, sit tight. Don't go anywhere."

"Where are we gonna go?" Dean hung up.

Bobby closed his phone. These boys might be the death of him, yet. But he thought of Sam's face in the salvage yard, bruised and puffed from tears, but still full of fight. He thought of Dean's voice on the phone, exhausted and numb but, heaven help them all, alive.

It seemed that he owed John some thanks, for pulling him back into the family after all, even in the midst of hard times just starting.

For that, and for the boys, he thought he could mourn John Winchester as he deserved. Just maybe he could do that much.

 **Part 2 of my playlist fic challenge. This is my personal SPN playlist, and I am going from the beginning. This one is based on soundtrack music by Christopher Lennertz. If you'd like to hear the piece, here's a link: watch?v=AkdwRC7-TIw**

 **Next up is "Carry On (My Wayward Son)"! I am nervous about this one, and would love some prompts to work my way in. Should it be funny, angsty, future fic? Something else? Which character(s) should take the lead? I appreciate any help and feedback you might be able to give. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Carry On

**Carry On**

 _Billie said, "It's over."_

Sam left his apartment and walked down the back stairwell to the selling floor, pausing for a second to glance around the quiet, dark space and breathe in the scent of old books and herbs that grounded him. Rosemary hung heavy in the air this morning, and he knew he was in for it today. There were days, weeks, that he lived his life not thinking about Billie's last visit, now so long ago and far away, but today was apparently not going to be one of them. Whole months passed without his brother's voice echoing from the corners of his memory, but this morning it was just a matter of time before he piped up.

He gathered his thoughts, tucking them away, and crossed the wood floor to the door, and turned the deadbolt that opened the door of his shop, Johnsons' Books.

 _Billie said, "He didn't suffer. And no, he's not suffering now." She held her hand out for the book._

Sam flipped on the lights, and unlocked the register before picking up his tablet to read the day's news. For a moment, he itched to open a tab to the internet of the weird, but then he sighed and turned to the mainstream news feed instead. It had been years since the last time he'd trolled those murky waters for a case, for a sign-anything-

 _Billie said, "You can't follow, Sam."_

"Watch me," Sam muttered under his breath. He'd shot that comeback at Billie and she simply looked at him with an expression that did not quite reach pity. Now the words died in the empty air. He knew how far he had gone down his brother's path, and where he had stopped. Now he only mocked himself.

There was a convex mirror up in the corner opposite the desk where he now sat, that gave him a view of the far shelves of books and oddities as well as his own tiny image. Were he to look up, he would only see the gray that streaked his hair and silvered the beard he scrubbed with an absent-minded hand. He did not look up.

 _Billie's bemused and unblinking gaze did not waver until he reluctantly closed the book. His thumb ran over the silver embossed title on its spine, D. WINCHESTER in blocky letters, and he was caught for a moment in a memory, a thousand memories, of his brother testing the edge of a blade._

 _He placed the book in her outstretched hand._

News headlines exhausted, he turned to his texts and emails. Pretty quiet out there. No reports from the bunker in Lebanon or the newer one in upstate New York. An easy question about wraiths from Alan, one of the hunters who still called him "Chief". A quick note from Jody, letting him know that she'd dropped his name to a kid who was heading his way, a girl who might be stopping by on her way to Phoenix, a green hunter who, in the sheriff's opinion, ought not to be hunting at all-

The bell over the shop door let out a sharp warning and Sam startled upright. Somewhere deep in his mind, his brother's voice snorted at him- _"Gettin' soft, there, Sammy-"_

He blinked at the young man who'd broken the silence of the shop. There was nothing remarkable about the kid. He was a sketch with wavy brown hair, brown eyes, thin torso wrapped in an olive green army jacket. Some sort of medallion hung at his neck, and the black lines of a tattoo crept out of his left sleeve cuff and twined around his wrist. The early morning sun glowed behind him, and Sam wanted to rub his eyes and look again.

The kid met Sam's look with a grin, stuffed his fingers in his coat pockets, and cocked his head at the plate glass window where the stenciled hunter's symbols formed a border around the shop's name. He spread the edges of his coat with his pocketed hands, revealing a faded Sgt Pepper's t-shirt. He could almost be-

"Can I-" Sam's voice was rusty, and he tried again. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah. At least, I hope so."

Sam nodded, and looked back down at his screen. He pushed the button that turned off the tablet, flipped the cover closed, and stood up.

The kid took a step back as if surprised at the shopkeeper's height. Sam waved his hand in a vague welcome, beckoning him towards the counter. "What are you looking for, exactly? Information? Tools?" He gestured towards his shelves. "Books?" he asked with a slight smile.

"Well-I've been looking into this house outside of town, on Rigel Creek Road-"

"The Dawson place?"

"Yeah. How did you-"

Sam shook his head, once. "I hear the haunting's been cleaned up on that one. You've come a long way, I'm afraid."

"OK, but the thing is, I don't think it's a ghost problem. And yeah, I already checked old Alexander's grave. His wife's, too." The boy approached the desk. Even though he was tall, he still had to lean his head back to keep looking Sam in the eye. He made the effort, though, and Sam thought he might like the kid. "So, no more ghosts. But there's something. I'm going off a story that was posted two weeks ago by an eye witness who said something about some local kids getting pushed down stairs and locked in cellars."

Sam frowned. He hadn't heard any of this. Even staying away from the usual case-generating websites, he thought he would find out about weird things happening in his own town. Except, he thought with a twinge of chagrin, that he couldn't remember the last time he had ventured out onto the sidewalk and down to the cafe for an afternoon coffee.

 _Billie said, "It's time for you to live, Sam," and he bit back his anger, looked down at the hem of her long skirt._

"It could be a couple of things, then," Sam started. The boy watched him impassively. "You've swept the place?"

"Yep. EMF all over the place. No apparitions, but when I opened the door to leave, something yanked it out of my hand and slammed it shut. And then it-whatever it was-tried to drop the hall chandelier on my head."

"Right." He held out his hand. "I'm Sam," he said, waving his hand towards the window. "Sam Johnson."

After a moment the kid stepped up and took it. He had a good firm handshake, and he didn't flinch when the silver ring on Sam's finger brushed across his palm. "Ben," he said.

Sam looked at his visitor with more interest as their handshake broke apart, staring long enough that the kid began to fidget. Another image flashed across his vision, and the younger man's discomfort was lost in a memory of his brother's voice.

 _He leaned against the bureau and tried to explain. "I know that Ben's not mine. But I'm starting to feel like, yeah, he is."_

No last name, a cautious kid. Good. The right age, the right hair color, but Sam knew that practically all of his memories from that year were faulty. Even "Ben" might not be real, as far as that went. He glanced down at the silver disc that hung from the boy's neck by a chain. It was a familiar pentagram, surrounded by a circle of stylized flames, their edges darkened with age and wear. His palm unconsciously drifted up to his own chest, towards his own hidden anti-possession tattoo, before he realized what he was doing. It doesn't mean anything, he thought, and nodded.

"Right, Ben-let's-I keep a few lore books back here-" He turned and walked to an alcove in the rear of the shop. He flipped the curtain covering its entrance to one side, taking a bit of pleasure in the kid's stifled gasp as his action temporarily dispelled the concealing magic that hid the small room. As he looped the cloth in his hand over a hook mounted on the alcove wall, he heard Ben whistle softly.

 _And from the far corner of his mind, his brother whistled, too. "You know the kid five minutes and you let him into the inner sanctum?"_

 _Shut up, Sam said, hoping he hadn't said it out loud._

"A few books?" Ben stopped beneath the gathered curtain and gazed at Sam's private library, as his host began pulling a tome from the shelves.

"Yeah." Sam looked up briefly, scanning the shelves in front of him before turning briefly to his customer. "Never know what you'll need, you know?"

 _Sam wanted to lash out at Billie, at Death, to yell, scream, shove at the placid figure that stood before him. Instead he swallowed, hard, and met her gaze with a glare._

" _That's it?" He managed through his stifling anger, pointing at the ground by Billie's feet. "We gave everything-everything-and you give me a dead brother and a 'have a nice life'?"_

 _Billie tilted her head to the side, regarding him. Then she smiled. "You get the world, Sam."_

 _He began to scoff, before she added, "And your freedom in it."_

It didn't take them long. Sam bet that the Dawson place was infected with a poltergeist, and a bit of research bore his theory out. He set the book describing the malevolent spirits on the table, spinning it over to Ben, and pointed at a few relevant passages.

Ben, to his credit, read the book without comment, nodding his agreement here and there. At the end of the page he glanced up with another grin. "Nasty."

"They are, yeah. Luckily, this one picked a mostly empty house to take possession of." Sam splayed his hand over the book page and ran his fingertips down the entry as he re-read it. "You have to purify the place, and it'll, sort of, move on."

"Purify? You mean, like, burn sage? Or do some Zelda Rubenstein routine?"

Sam laughed, just a little, then schooled his face into a thoughtful frown. "There's no ritual involved for this job. You need hex bags, enough for each floor of the house, to put inside the walls. North, South, East, and West corners. So-" he tried to remember his own time casing the house, figuring out how many flights of stairs he had climbed. Ben beat him to it.

"Sixteen bags."

"Right. Have a seat. I'm pretty sure I have what we need."

The ingredients were not rare. Sam's store was well stocked behind the counter, and soon enough they were both back at the library table in the alcove with a tray of Angelica Root and the other components between them, a little pile of softened leather beside it. Sam watched the kid carefully, watching as the young man helped him measure, bundle, and seal the hex bags. Ben's fingers were nimble and sure, and it seemed he had some experience with hex bags.

Sam didn't pry. They fell into a rhythm as the row of bags grew between them. Ben was not inclined much to talk, shrugging off his few questions-"Where are you from?" he heard himself say at one point, wincing as soon as the words were out of his mouth-with a shrug that was more polite than dismissive as he replied, "The Midwest."

For his part, if Ben wondered why no one entered the shop for the entire time they were bent over the ingredients, he didn't pry, either.

The last bag tied, Ben tossed it at the head of the row before standing and sweeping them all up into his hands. "Thanks, man-" he said. His face softened with pleasure at their work as he looked up, and his smile looked eager and young.

 _His big brother, who was now a half inch shorter than he was, tipped the silver bullet out of the form and looked up across the room with an excited grin. "Not bad, eh, Sammy?"_

 _Sam, already fourteen, didn't glance up from his book. "Yeah. It's great."_

Sam felt his face sag at the memory, a litany of "It's not him, it's not him, don't forget it's not him-" circling through his brain until, from that dark warm corner a soft laugh stopped them cold.

Across the table Ben's smile dimmed and the kid began to turn away. "So, uh, what do I owe you?"

Sam scrubbed his beard with his palm and stood, chagrined at the sudden coolness in the boy's tone. "Here, let me get you a bag, or a box, for those."

Ben was almost at the counter as Sam unhooked the curtain and let it fall over the alcove entrance and then hurried to his till. He retrieved a small paper bag from underneath the counter, snapped it open, and held it out to the kid, who obligingly tipped his handfuls of hex bags into the opening before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a thin wallet.

He looked at Sam expectantly.

The older man, former hunter-former brother-turned shopkeeper rang up a bill for the ingredients, taking a discount off the top, charging just enough to allow him to replenish his supplies.

Ben paid without comment, but the little grin that returned to his lips suggested that he knew that Sam was giving him a bargain. He grabbed the bag and walked to the door, saying, "Thanks again. I'll let you know how it goes," without turning around.

He had pulled it open, the bell jingling over his head, before Sam said, "Ben-wait."

The boy looked over his shoulder at him, and the question he was intending to ask died away. He shook himself, tried something else. "Do you-have help?" his voice faltered, but he pushed ahead, clearing his throat. "The poltergeist will try to stop you. You should have back-up."

Ben grinned and turned back toward the shop, bracing the open door with his shoulders. "Don't worry, Sam. I've got this." A graceful pivot and step took him out the door, which brushed the bell softly as it closed.

 _Billie said, "It's up to you, Sam. Choose your work." And she was gone._

Sam huffed a laugh, "Is it really just that easy?" he asked himself, the eternal question of his too quiet life settling in the air and onto his shoulders.

He sighed, and wondered how long it would take Ben to drive out to the Dawson place. Wondered if anyone would notice if he closed the shop at five minutes to noon. He didn't think anyone would care. And he knew.

He knew that if his brother-if Dean-could have been standing next to him now, he would clap him on the back, and laugh with anticipation. He could almost see his face, his boyish excited smile.

Because Sam had work to do.

 **A/N: This is kind of a weird one, I know-writing Sam is hard for me! This is especially for borgmama10f5, whose ideas on the last story in the series inspired this. I hope that it makes some kind of sense, and that you like it. Please let me know what you think in the comments.**

 **Next on my playlist: "Don't Fear the Reaper". Thoughts?**


	4. (Don't Fear) The Reaper

Winchesters. Chosen Ones, so some say. Nature Wreckers, as far as I'm concerned. They never met a house of cards that they could resist playing with, just to see how many layers they could touch and poke at before the whole thing came crashing down. You'd have never known their potential, though, if you'd seen them at the beginning of their rampages. I certainly thought they were no more than moderately amusing boys the first time I saw them.

It would be wrong to call it a day off. Reapers don't take time off. When we are called, we go. But we don't always get called to the same place-and some places are busier than others. So there are lulls, moments when we can take our leisure among the living if we choose. And at that moment, on that day, I was leaning back on my elbows under a wide oak tree that held court in the center of a town square much younger than it by far. I was gazing up through the leaves, content to allow my senses to wander among the citizens of the town, when the big black car drove by.

Its roar caught my attention, pulled me from my contemplation of an elderly gent who I imagined might be seeing me in the near future, and I turned to look as it sped by. Two young men sat in the front seat. They felt familiar to me, an unusual sensation. It's not often that I can say such a thing, as typically, I meet souls only once. They accept my guidance, or they linger, and either way, I never see them again. They leave just a faint memory of their touch in my fingertips. So where had I encountered these two? I sat up to keep the car in sight.

It pulled into a gas station on the far edge of the park, and the passenger got out. He was maybe in his early twenties, very tall, with hair hung in his eyes and falling in indifferent waves about his head. Even from here I could see the bruises, the deep red of a line of cuts on his cheek, and the scowl that pulled down his brow. His angry mood was confirmed for me when he slammed the car door shut like he was trying to mold it permanently into the frame.

Through the open car window, I heard the driver shout at him, some question or final word that he pointedly ignored. As he disappeared into the convenience store on the far side of the gas pumps, I stood and shook out my clothes, a habit, I suppose, since I had not a speck of grass or dirt clinging to me.

The driver stood now at the back of the car, twisting the gas cap off, his eyes downcast. He muttered something to himself. I moved closer, slipping back into the shadow world as I walked. The young man at the pumps straightened, having started the gas running into the car's tank, and stared out at the park.

I was now crossing the concrete path as quickly as a thought. A little girl sensed me as I passed by, my fingers just grazing her hair like a sudden cool breeze, and she shivered and grabbed for her mother's hand. Her head turned to seek me out, craning over her shoulder, but her mother did not slow, and the girl finally turned back and took several running steps to catch up to the woman's long strides. The driver across the street gave no sign of noticing the girl. Her mother leaned over and pulled her draped sweater, which had fallen to her elbows, over her daughter's shoulders without missing a step, and they passed out of the tree's dappled shadows and into the sunny playground beyond.

I don't think she actually saw me.

The driver looked a little older than the boy who'd stomped off into the store, but not by much. He, too, was bruised, and I could see that he also had a row of wounds on his face. His were on his forehead, and while it looked as though they were healing, one scab was raw and broken open. I could also see a spot of dark red blood that had blossomed over the upper left of his shirt, even though he held his arm stiffly against his stomach to keep his jacket closed. Under his close-cropped hair, his own brow was furrowed, his lips pursed.

I reached the car's rear brake light just as the pump stopped. The driver yanked the nozzle out with unnecessary force, holding it upright like a gun at the ready as he twirled the gas cap back into place, spun around to return the nozzle to its pump rest, turning so quickly that he seemed to lose his balance for a moment and had to stop. He leaned up against the side of his car and put his free hand up to this temple, muttering to himself again. I stepped up behind him as he spit out his last word like a curse.

"-Hospital-"

He could use one, I thought, as he pulled himself upright and practically staggered from the pump. He didn't need me… at least, not today.

The driver used the roof of his car to navigate to the driver's side door, which he opened to fall onto the seat. Once in, he slid down until he could rest his head on the back of the bench, his knees splayed out to either side of the steering wheel.

I admit, these young men aroused my curiosity. I entered the rear seat of their car, coming to a stop just behind the driver, and though the better part of me whispered that I was intruding, I reached up and placed a finger to the back of his head, behind his right ear. He shivered, but made no move to pull away. His eyes fell closed and I took the opportunity to open his memories for a peek.

 _Stupid. And slow._

 _I felt the stairs underneath my back, digging their corners into my shoulder blades and tailbone, and I groaned. Something was drumming on the side of my face, and I waived my hand at whatever the frickin hell it was, like I was trying to shoo away a fly. Some sort of humungous fly._

" _C'mon, Dean," the fly said. I cracked my eyes open, and Sammy stopped patting my cheekbone. His face was about five inches from me. When he saw me looking up at his mug he grinned a little, said, "Hey."_

" _Did we get 'em?" My tongue weighed a ton and wanted to stick itself to the roof of my mouth and never come down._

" _Yeah-yeah, we did." He held out a hand and I took it, trying not to grunt as he hauled me upright. Something wet dripped onto my eyelid and my hand came away red when I swiped at the drops. Damn poltergeist had opened up one of the cuts on my forehead when it decided to bash my nose with a lamp, just as I'd reached the top of the stairs. I blinked, and wobbled a bit as I got to my feet. Then Sam's hand was under my armpit, steadying me._

" _We should get your head checked," he said. His voice echoed in my ear, but-_

I frowned. So much for their bruises, and their argument, I thought, but this didn't explain where I'd seen these young men, this Dean and the other, Sammy, before. I was not in the business of collecting poltergeists, and neither one of them had seen me waiting for them at the end of this particular fight. I pushed past this memory and went deeper into his mind.

 _Darkness covered my eyes as the thing threw me across the room and slashed its shadow claws down over my face. I could hear my dad yelling and I slammed my fist into the daeva's body. Might as well have been punching smoke. I tried to scramble away, out from under it, but the thing was everywhere, and I was screwed._

 _I heard Sammy shout, "Cover your eyes!" and a blast of white-hot light flooded the room and blinded both me and the thing. The deava left me, flinging itself into the ceiling to escape its brightness. I heard the hissing crackle of a road flare as I pulled my arm up over my eyes and let my head thump onto the shitty motel room floor._

I pulled my hand away from the driver's neck. They'd been in a fight with a daeva, and won. Or at least, gotten the shadow demon to leave before it had a chance to do worse than cut up their faces. The fear that accompanied the memory felt raw and new. Dean stirred again, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as if he were trying to sluff off the memory, or defy the fear. He still did not open his eyes.

I was tempted to look into his mind one more time, but the truth was, I'd seen enough to remember where I'd encountered these boys before. In my defense, they had been looking down from a shattered fourth story window onto a darkened street, and my main focus at that point had been the body of the young girl sprawled at my feet.

I stood for several minutes over her, waiting. Eventually, I heard the screech of metal behind us, and the two young men opened a door at the far corner of the building. Their collars were up, and they walked away from my new charge, not hurrying and not looking back.

After they turned the corner, a truck that had been parked a few dozen feet away from the girl, in between the street lights, pulled out from its spot. I caught a glimpse of a bearded driver as it passed. He did not turn at the same corner as the young men, but paused there. His head swiveled to look after them. The truck was stopped at that intersection far too long for him to be merely checking traffic. Finally, the driver moved his rig forward, and turned up at the next block. Curious, I thought, but still not my concern. I turned my attention back to the girl, and realized that, while she had not yet left her bones behind, she knew I was there.

Megan Elizabeth Masters gazed up at me from the pavement where her soul lay entangled in the greasy corruption of the demon who possessed her. At first I saw just her eyes, but then her true face, the one she held inside, pulled free of the black smoke that rolled sluggishly through her body. Her mouth opened, closed, as if she was out of practice with controlling it. Finally, she licked her lips and found some breath. "Please," she whispered. "Please."

I was bending the rules, I knew, as she still clung to her life, but I answered her nonetheless. "I can't save you. That's not why I'm here." I extended my hand to her. "But I can help you, if you choose to come with me."

She reached for me, her intent forming into the shape of her ghostly hand breaking free of the demon's form and her own body. I smiled at her and she seemed to take encouragement from that and stretched further up towards my hand. But before our fingertips could touch, the demon began to move. Its smoke, no longer an aimless cloud, began to roil into a chaotic mass and it covered the girl's body before filling it again. Megan's mouth opened in a wordless cry, and then her face was gone.

I withdrew my hand.

The demon contorted Megan's earnest gaze into a furious scowl. It flipped her body over, began to rise up onto her hands and feet, the proper angles of bones and muscle still jagged and wrong, her head lolling on her broken neck.

"Get away from me," it hissed. And it was gone, taking Megan's soul and her un-mendable bones with it, and I could do no more for her.

The passenger door clunked shut, shaking the car and pulling both Dean and me out of our reveries. The younger man-Sammy-handed the driver a drink in a cup with a straw. His companion grunted his thanks and reached for the ignition key.

Sammy took a deep breath. "Dean-"

The other cut him off with a sharp jerk of his head. "No, Sam. I'm okay. 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1. George Bush. W., not H.W." He looked over at Sam with a grin that I supposed he thought reassuring. "See? Not concussed." He wiggled the fingers on the arm I'd seen him favoring. "No broken bones. Do you want me to touch my nose?"

Sam shook his head, once, and muttered under his breath, "Idiot."

"Yeah, maybe. But this idiot is just fine to haul your ass another hundred miles south down this road today." He turned back to the wheel and started the car. The radio came on, loud.

He'd caught the song that flowed out from the speakers right at the beginning of an echoey guitar line. It was a day of deja vu, as I thought I'd heard it before, somewhere. Perhaps I'd picked it up as it jangled through the mind of a charge or two, before they'd decided to take my offer. I frowned, but stayed in my place on the rear bench seat. Dean popped his car into gear and drove smoothly toward the gas station exit ramp.

I placed the song when the lyrics came, delivered in an equally echoing tenor. _Seasons don't fear the reaper-_

I groaned and Sam shocked me by turning to stare into the back seat. As if he'd heard me. Somehow. I felt my eyes widen in surprise, and got ready to flee, but his gaze swept over me and back to the passenger window.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing-I guess-"

Dean's fingers tapped on the wheel and he turned his attention back to the road. _We could be like they are-_ he sang softly. He reached for the radio knob, turned up that tiresome song, and glanced over at Sam. A private little smile quirked his lips.

"Hey, Sammy-you know, I think I gotta fever."

That got Sam's attention. "You do?"

"Yeah. And the only prescription-"

I allowed myself to drift out of the cab as he nosed the car into traffic, but I stayed long enough to hear Sam's exasperated sigh as his brother landed his joke.

"-Is more cowbell."


End file.
